


A Perfectly Ordinary Day

by zelda_zee



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-17
Updated: 2010-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/"><b>hw09_exchange</b></a>. Set at no particular time, but written with the movie characters in mind. Thank you to <a href="http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://siluria.livejournal.com/"><b>siluria</b></a>, for the speedy beta and for making sure my characters sound properly English.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Perfectly Ordinary Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**hw09_exchange**](http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/). Set at no particular time, but written with the movie characters in mind. Thank you to [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/), for the speedy beta and for making sure my characters sound properly English.

Holmes would later recall that the day on which the nature of his relationship with Watson changed forever had begun in an unremarkable manner. There had been no clue, as he sat cross-legged beneath the dining table, sipping cold tea and watching as the watery light of dawn filtered weakly through the gap in the curtains, that this was a day which would alter the course of his life. It had seemed likely to conclude as it had begun, perfectly ordinary in every respect.

He was between cases, the days stretching out into an endless, monotonous expanse. Holmes spent them sunk into melancholy and for the most part prone, either upon the floor or the settee, smoking too much and experimenting with various dosages of cocaine in the vain hope of finding one that would drive Watson from his thoughts.

It had come upon him slowly, revealed by fits and starts. His friendship with Watson had developed into such an intimate one that at first he mistook his feelings for nothing more than a strengthening of that platonic bond. But that was not what it was at all, and at some point Holmes realized that looking at Watson, listening to him speak, simply being near him, had become crucial to his well-being; indeed had become the very crux of it.

This should not have come as the complete surprise that it did. Holmes knew his own nature and had never made any attempt to deceive himself about it. The fact that he had ceased to act upon it since he met Watson should have been a clue, but he had somehow neglected to put two and two together, imagining instead that his lack of inclination to seek physical congress with others was due to the redirection of his energies into his detecting work or the natural lessening of urges due to the passing of years or even to the mind-altering chemical substances he employed to make being alive a more manageable state of being.

But it was none of those things. It was Watson, pure and simple.

Holmes thought, at first, that it was merely a matter of lust. Watson was, after all, uncommonly fine to look at, with his wiry strength and his military bearing and his quick, self-deprecating smile. But it did not take long for Holmes to reject the idea that it was such a base a matter as lust. The desire he felt to sit at Watson’s feet as he read his book in the evenings, to lean his head against Watson’s knee and feel Watson’s fingers comb slowly through his hair had nothing to do with lust. Nor did the ache in his chest when he heard Watson cry out in his sleep or when he had a particularly bad day and his mouth was drawn and tight with pain. Wanting to kiss that pain away had nothing to do with lust, no more than did the pleasure of walking down the street with him arm in arm, or the joy of catching his eye when they were in the company of others and sharing a silent joke, or the way that just knowing John Watson had made Holmes wish to become a better man.

He could not get Watson out of his head. Holmes thought he must do something or go mad. To declare himself was sheer insanity, and yet the more time passed, the more Holmes believed it must come to that.

It was on the third or fourth day (he wasn’t sure which) of Holmes’ self-imposed solitude that there was a familiar knock on his door.

“It isn’t locked,” he called, because he knew Watson would come in anyway. He wondered when it was that they’d decided entering each other’s rooms without invitation was allowed. It seemed to have simply happened without Holmes noticing.

Watson grimaced at the stale air, just as Holmes had known he would.

“You are utterly disgusting,” Watson commented. He strode purposefully to the window and pushed it wide open. “Must you _wallow_ so, Holmes?”

“I find wallowing exceedingly satisfying. I see no reason to desist.”

“You’re not bored?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Why don’t you _do_ something?”

Holmes sniffed and endeavored to project a casual air from where he lay on the settee. “Doing something for no other purpose than to be doing something would not render me any less bored.”

“It is a fine day,” Watson said, standing before the window with his hands clasped behind his ramrod straight back. “It would do you good to take part in it, rather than locking yourself away in here.”

Holmes stared fixedly at Watson’s back, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his spine, the graceful taper to narrow hips that he could perceive despite the layers of clothing.

“There is nothing out there that I prefer to what is in here,” Holmes murmured.

Watson turned, an eyebrow raised, and Holmes quickly looked away.

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your views known on the cesspool that is the world outside your inner sanctum on numerous occasions.” Watson came toward him, a determined look in his eye.

“Then I do not understand why you continue to pester me about going out into it when there is not an absolute necessity to do so.” Holmes knew he sounded petulant, but he didn’t care. He could feel himself wavering in the face of Watson’s particular method of applying pressure and it made him bad-tempered.

“Come on, old chap,” Watson said softly, smiling in a way that crumbled all of Holmes’ defenses into rubble at his feet. He stared at Watson helplessly, entranced. “Take a walk with me.”

Watson held out his hand and Holmes found himself taking it and letting himself be raised to his feet as if he were a lady recovering from a fit of the vapors. Worse, he clung to Watson’s hand as a wave of dizziness washed over him, brought on by the blood redistributing itself throughout his body and having nothing to do with Watson’s proximity and that damnable smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“I hope you know,” Holmes grumbled as he shoved a hat down over his uncombed hair and donned his shaded glasses, “I would not do this for anyone else.”

“I am well aware of that,” Watson said. “And I find it gratifying indeed.” He was watching Holmes with fond exasperation, which Holmes found very disconcerting. There was no reason for Watson to look at him fondly. No reason at all.

They walked along the canal in Regent’s Park, Holmes scowling at the obstreperous children and nannies pushing prams, forgetting that they couldn’t see his ominous glare behind the glasses. The sun was very bright, though the day was not warm. Holmes allowed that there may be some small bit of charm to it, for those inclined toward appreciation of the natural world. He supposed it was the nicer sort of autumnal afternoon, the sooty London air relatively crisp and clear for a change.

After an hour or so they sat, Watson insisting that they take a bench in the sun. “You’re too pale,” he said. “You look as though you haven’t been out of doors in months.”

Holmes considered for a moment. “That is essentially true.” He looked around them. “The out of doors is overrated.”

Watson turned to him. “This isn’t pleasant? You’re not enjoying yourself even the least little bit?”

Holmes looked at him over the top of his glasses, resisting the smile that was trying to crook the corner of his lip. “It is not the worst afternoon I have passed. I will concede that much.”

Watson rolled his eyes and settled back beside him. After that they sat in companionable silence, broken only by occasional comment about the people around them. Watson’s shoulder just brushed Holmes’, his knee knocking against Holmes’ when he shifted position. The stark, flat October sunlight shone on Watson’s face, illuminating every flaw, every scar and mole and line and he was still so beautiful that Holmes had to look away, more beautiful even than in the flattering gaslight of their rooms. Something about those imperfections twisted up inside Holmes and made his chest hurt so that he had to breathe shallowly, careful not to let on to Watson that anything was amiss.

After a while they walked on along the lake. Holmes should have chafed at it, this pointless exercise, the bright sunshine, the chaotic clamor of voices. It was the epitome of what he professed to despise, but he found that he didn’t mind it today. He must be hopelessly besotted, he thought, that Watson’s mere presence could make such tedium not only bearable, but pleasant.

“Why don’t you take me to supper at Simpson’s?” Watson said, when the day began to cool and the sun to lower in the sky. His grin was a lovely sight, teasing and challenging at once.

“And why should I do that?”

Watson leaned closer, his shoulder solid against Holmes, his breath puffing against Holmes’ neck, raising goosebumps. Holmes’ gait faltered for just a second before he righted himself. “Because you want to. You know very well that you do.” Watson’s voice was warm and low, too intimate for the prosaic words he spoke and their very public location. “And besides, you are wearing my shirt.”

“And?” Holmes could not prevent himself from bending closer, until he almost fancied he could feel the brush of Watson’s moustache against his ear.

“The barter system, my dear chap. I think I deserve to get something out of it for a change. A meal, in return for the involuntary loan of my shirt.”

“You deserve that, do you?” Holmes was suddenly keenly aware of Watson’s shirt, wrapped around him like a caress, making his skin tingle.

“I do.”

 _Does he know what he does to me?_ Holmes wondered. It was quite impossible that he should. And yet, at times like this (and there had been others, more frequently of late) Holmes wondered if Watson somehow had discovered his secret. If so, he was using it to his advantage, for Holmes was finding himself agreeing to unwanted promenades because of a rare and beautiful smile and impromptu suppers due to a certain tone of voice.

“Very well,” Holmes acquiesced. In silent accord they turned their steps toward the street, with the purpose of flagging down a hansom. “Do you know, I believe this is your waistcoat as well,” he added as an afterthought.

Holmes had not eaten in… he wasn’t exactly sure how long. He found he was uncharacteristically ravenous and quite unable to resist the buttery rolls and the broiled oysters Watson ordered. The worst of his hunger satisfied, he focused his attention on Watson, who filled him in on the news from the past three (for it had been three and not four) days. There was nothing of particular interest, which was no more than Holmes expected, but he did not find the meal tedious. The beef Wellington was excellent, the wine was rich and complex, and they had secured their favorite table, situated in a corner, a little on its own. Watson was sitting across from him, expounding on some sort of scandal in the banking industry with righteous indignation, and making the crowded room, the noise and the bustle fade harmlessly into the background. Holmes examined his mood and found that he was… not discontent.

“Are you even listening to me?” Watson asked, and Holmes realized he’d drifted away.

“Indeed,” Holmes assured him. “Pray continue. This beef is exquisite, Watson, you must try it.” Watson was having the roasted chicken, a baffling choice in Holmes’ estimation.

“No, I, well, thank you,” Watson said as Holmes sliced off a sizable piece and deposited it on Watson’s plate. “And you accuse me of being a mother hen.”

Over Holmes' protests Watson ordered him dessert, which turned out to be a quite palatable slice of spiced cake. Holmes picked at it over the next hour while they sat at ease over glasses of port and held an enjoyable, rambling deconstruction of their last couple of cases. By the time Holmes paid their bill, he was feeling sated and drowsy as he hadn’t in far too long.

“Perhaps we should walk for a bit,” Watson suggested, “and let our supper settle before we return home.”

Holmes agreed and they strolled aimlessly in the general direction of Baker Street. Night had fallen while they’d been at supper, though the streets were still busy with people hurrying home or heading out for a night on the town. He slipped his arm through Watson’s, smiling as Watson snugged it in close to his body. Glancing out of the corner of his eye he could see Watson smiling too.

It was so easy and natural that Holmes thought he could perhaps be satisfied with this, with simple comradeship and that unspoken understanding of each other that he and the doctor shared.

Yet later, when they were sitting side by side in a hansom, rattling over the cobblestones on the way back to their lodgings and Holmes was watching the play of light and shadow over Watson’s face and the curl of hair behind his ear and his graceful, masculine hands resting on the head of his cane, he did not think so at all. He would never be content with just this, Holmes realized. It was not in his capacity to be content with anything less than exactly what he wanted, what he _required_. And he required Watson in the worst way. There were times when he suspected Watson harbored some unacknowledged feelings for him that went beyond friendship, but even were it not so, at some point – and soon – Holmes would not be able to resist making his move. There was every chance the result would be disastrous, yet he was compelled to try.

Watson caught his eye and smiled. “Feeling better now, old boy?”

Holmes found that, despite his disquieting thoughts, there was only one answer he could give. “Indeed I do, mother hen. How could I not?”

It was not late enough to retire upon their return, so Watson seated himself at his desk and soon was absorbed in turning one or another of their cases into a grand adventure fit to entertain the masses. Holmes settled into his chair, intending to read a rather intriguing article he had come across concerning poisons employed by the native peoples of the Amazon, but he found himself distracted by the way the lamplight burnished Watson’s hair to the exact amber-gold shade of the honey that Mrs. Hudson got from her nephew’s farm in Devon. Then he spent a good quarter-hour contemplating the whorls of Watson’s ear and longer than that engaged in studying the curve of his neck, and he had just begun an earnest appreciation of Watson’s forearm, exposed due to the rolled cuff of his sleeve, when he looked up to find Watson watching him.

“Are you staring at me?” he asked.

Holmes blinked at him and opened his mouth to deny it and said instead, “I am.”

“May I ask why?”

It was not too late to disavow it, but Holmes was seized with an urge for honesty and this time he did not fight it.

“I like looking at you.”

Watson’s eyes widened and he flushed, his gaze dropping to the papers littering his desk. After a moment he spoke, quiet words but Holmes felt the weight of each one. “It has seemed of late that your attention has been directed at me more than is usual and I – I had wondered at it.”

Holmes swallowed, his eyes falling closed for just a second. He felt vaguely ill, unable to get enough air, possibly about to lose consciousness, or perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Watson had given him something he would never have expected – an opening. It would have required more strength than Holmes possessed not to seize it.

“It is quite beyond my control,” Holmes said faintly. “As are so many things.”

Watson carefully put down his pen, still not looking in Holmes’ direction. “I – I am not sure of your meaning, Holmes. I cannot guess at it.”

“You cannot?” Holmes gripped the arms of the chair like a lifeline, holding so tightly his fingers ached.

“I must not.” It was barely above a whisper. “I must be certain.”

A part of Holmes knew that this had to be a mistake, that it must be a misunderstanding. There was too much room for error and even a small misstep would change everything, would surely ruin everything beyond repair. But he could not help himself. His perverse nature insisted that these feelings that tormented him be expressed.

“I find,” Holmes choked out, “that you have become everything that matters to me, John.”

Watson started at the use of his name, a word Holmes had never called him aloud, indeed that he had only ever used in his most private and solitary thoughts. They stared at each other for an interminable moment, neither of them moving, neither of them appearing to breathe.

Somehow Holmes was on his feet, moving across the room toward Watson without having made a decision to do any such thing. Watson stood as well, taking a defensive stance that Holmes had seen him adopt many times immediately before the beginning of a fight.

“I – Holmes – my dear fellow –” Watson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and Holmes wanted to put his lips on it, lave with his tongue and feel the rasp of stubble and the warmth of Watson’s skin. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Holmes moved closer, bracing a hand on the desk beside Watson’s hip, dizzy with longing and from being close enough to feel the heat emanating from Watson’s body. “I think you do know what I mean. I think you know very well. Use those deductive skills that you’ve worked so hard to develop, Watson.”

Holmes leaned in, keeping his eyes carefully on Watson, ready to pull back at the slightest hint of objection, but Watson might as well have been frozen. He did not move at all, not even when Holmes was so near as to feel the quick exhalations of Watson’s breath on his face, not even when Holmes’ lips barely brushed Watson’s jaw. It was not until he rubbed his cheek against Watson’s and slid a hand into his hair that Watson moved at all, a deep shudder that Holmes felt more than saw.

“Holmes,” Watson said, his voice unexpectedly raw. The sound of it made heat gather low in Holmes’ belly and tension curl at the base of his spine. Watson drew a gasping breath, making a feeble attempt to assume his customary role as the voice of reason. “What are you – Holmes, we should not –”

Holmes turned his face into Watson’s neck and inhaled, let the man’s scent wash over him, tobacco and brandy, soap and sweat and rich, yeasty scent of Watson underneath. “Ah, but you see, my dear, it is too late,” he said, drawing back enough to look upon Watson’s face. “I am far, far past the point of no return.”

Holmes closed his eyes then, because he would never be brave enough to kiss Watson if he could see his face. Watson’s lips were faintly trembling when Holmes’ touched them and he paused for a second to savor that slight, feather-like movement against his own before pressing forward, sliding his hand to the back of Watson’s head and tilting it just enough to slot their mouths together at the perfect angle.

Watson didn’t return the kiss but neither did he halt it, and that lit a spark of hope in Holmes. He had not kissed anyone in a long while, and had never kissed anyone who did not kiss him back, but he persevered, and when at last Watson opened his mouth, whether for air or to speak or possibly even in invitation, Holmes did not hesitate. His tongue darted in, venturing to lick over Watson’s bottom lip and to tease and coax and try to convince Watson to relent and let him in.

And Watson did, with a despairing groan, his hands coming up to either side of Holmes’ head, fingers curling against his scalp as he returned the kiss. Holmes’ blood surged, excitement shooting sharp and hot through his body, into his groin, erasing every thought that was not of Watson against him and around him, his lips full and soft and the tickle of his moustache and the sweet slide of his tongue as it hesitantly met Holmes’.

The kiss was, quite simply, the most divine experience of Sherlock Holmes’ life. If everything had ended in that moment, he would have died the happiest of men.

He crushed Watson to him, too roughly, but he couldn’t help himself and Watson only shuddered in his arms and slid his tongue in deeper. Their bodies molded tightly together, not a hair’s-breadth of space between them. Holmes could feel the flat planes of Watson’s chest and the hard muscles of his thighs and not for the life of him could he stop himself from canting his hips into Watson’s, although he feared that the solid feel of his arousal would shock Watson from his compliance.

Instead, Watson gasped and bucked, his hips grinding into Holmes, sending a jolt of lust up his spine and down his legs and into his aching prick. Holmes lost a bit of control at that and shoved Watson back against the desk, nudging his legs wider so he could stand between and give Watson more of what he’d responded to so enthusiastically. Watson braced a hand behind him on the desk, the other one curled behind Holmes neck, pulling him into a panting, biting kiss. They moved together, in concert after the first few awkward thrusts and it was, if not perfection, then close enough that in his current state of mind Holmes could not tell any different.

 _We will spend in our clothes if we continue thus_ , Holmes thought hazily, and though the idea was not without appeal, there was a preferable alternative.

“Watson,” Holmes panted, fingering the waistband of his trousers. “May I? If you would let me –”

“Yes,” Watson replied, his voice muffled against Holmes’ neck. “God, Holmes, yes.”

He freed Watson’s erection from the confines of his trousers, taking it in his hand and just looking for a moment. Watson made a rough, embarrassed sound and turned his head away, but Holmes could not avert his eyes. He had not known the sight would affect him so, but this was Watson – _his Watson_ – and every part of him was beautiful, every part of him dear. Holmes wanted to drop to his knees and worship him with his mouth for hours, but there would be time for that, he hoped. For now he needed to be close to Watson, to kiss him and hear what words he might utter and know that he wanted this as much as Holmes did.

He stroked and Watson pushed into his fist. Holmes made a noise, something overwhelmed and breathless and then Watson was kissing him, hands buried in his hair, mouth open and wet, their tongues dueling and dancing and fucking, trading moans until Holmes could no longer tell from whose lips they issued. It was a fierce, ungentle kiss and it was everything Holmes could wish for. Watson, it seemed, was not one to hold back once his blood was up, but Holmes should have guessed that about him, having seen the abandon with which he fought, the wild joy in his eyes which he would never own in calmer moments.

He released Watson abruptly, smiling at his frustrated curse, but only long enough to tear at his own flies and free himself so that he could rub his naked flesh against Watson’s, take them both in hand and squeeze them together in a tight fist, stroke and thrust. Watson gasped helplessly, a stream of slurred profanities interspersed with Holmes’ name, his breath blowing hot against Holmes’ lips.

“Look,” Holmes whispered, tilting Watson’s head down so he could see. “Look at us.”

The tips of their pricks gleamed, rubbing against each other, slick and swollen as Holmes pumped faster, his hand tight around them. It was gorgeous and obscene and indescribably arousing. Holmes felt his control start to break and he could only pray that he could hold himself together long enough for Watson to achieve his release, for he suspected that he would be entirely overcome if he were to spend first.

“Oh Christ,” Watson groaned. He clutched at Holmes, shaking, his breath hitching, muscles tensed. Holmes felt Watson go impossibly stiff in his hand and it sent a flare of heat through him so extreme he thought for a moment his knees would give out. They groaned together as Watson spent, Holmes holding him tightly, his face buried in Watson’s neck, working him through it until the end, until Watson sagged against him bonelessly.

He jerked when Watson touched him, just his fingertips slipping over the wet head of his cock, impossibly sensitive, impossibly good. His body seized with sudden unbearable pleasure and before he could utter a warning he was undone, crying out incoherently, knowing only that it was John Watson’s hand touching him so intimately and beyond that nothing but mindless ecstasy.

It took Holmes several moments to regain his senses and when he did he was somewhat amazed to find them both still on their feet and mostly clothed. He reached up and patted Watson clumsily on the cheek, not finding the words to fit the moment.

“What in God’s name are we to do now, Holmes?” Watson asked breathlessly, managing to sound on the verge of both laughter and despair.

“We could, if you wish, retire to the privacy of my bedchamber,” Holmes suggested, sidestepping the larger issues. “A locked door would be prudent if we are to continue as we have begun.”

“Good Lord! We left the door unlocked?” Watson’s head came up to look over Holmes’ shoulder to the door to the hall.

“Mmm. We could have given nanny quite a fright.”

Holmes drew back, giving Watson a bit of room. He was completely disheveled and Holmes was forced to assume that his own appearance was no neater. He smiled to see his spit and polish doctor looking so debauched. It was a look Watson wore well.

He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and discovered it missing, but before he could ask, Watson was holding his out. Holmes went to take it, but instead Watson reached for his hand – the one covered in evidence of their recent emissions – and carefully wiped it clean.

“No doubt you have surmised,” Watson said, concentrating on his task, “that I have never done this sort of thing before. You will have to be patient, Holmes, and I know that does not come easily to you. But this is rather a momentous step for me, and I ask you to be cognizant of that.” He sighed and shook his head. “I cannot but wonder if we have made a very big mistake by following our hearts in this.”

 _Our hearts_. Holmes thrilled to those words from Watson’s lips.

“Trust me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Can you?”

“I do,” Watson replied, leaning his forehead against Holmes’. “I do trust you, and yet I cannot think this wise.”

Holmes huffed a laugh. “No, you are quite correct. This is most unwise. Indeed, it is sheer folly.”

“Utter insanity,” Watson breathed, and kissed Holmes, slow and sweet.

“We must have taken leave of our senses,” Holmes murmured when their lips parted.

“Indubitably,” Watson agreed, his voice hitching as Holmes slid a hand under his shirt, over his stomach and chest, thumb rubbing purposefully over a nipple. Watson closed his eyes, swallowing. “Holmes,” he whispered.

Holmes leaned in to mouth over his neck, only knowing that he had to put his mouth on Watson’s skin immediately.

“Alas,” he said, drunk with the feel of Watson, the taste of his skin, the tickle of hair against his lips, the way he moved, shifting and subtly arching into Holmes’ touch. “We are lost, Watson. Quite lost.”

“I don’t think I care,” Watson said, tilting his head back farther.

Holmes pulled Watson more tightly into his embrace and smiled at his moan. “Thank God for that.”

“Your room,” Watson gasped, wrenching himself out of Holmes’ grasp, but grabbing his wrist and tugging him along.

 _Yes_ , Holmes thought, as he followed behind. _Privacy, a locked door and Watson naked in my bed_. Surely, there was nothing more to be wished for in this life.


End file.
